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  ‘Fudge! Who said you had been wicked, pray?’

  ‘She will say so! She has said from the start that I had ruined your life, and now she will know it is true! Sherry, I had rather you killed me than sent me back like that!’

  He removed her hands from his coat-lapels, saying sternly: ‘Stop talking in that nonsensical fashion! I never heard such fustian in my life! Can you not see that I am doing what I ought to have done at the outset?’

  ‘No! no! no!’

  ‘Well, I am!’ said his lordship, a mulish look about his mouth. ‘No, say no more, Hero! My mind is made up. You’ll go to Sheringham Place to-morrow, and I shall take you there.’

  ‘Sherry, no! Sherry, listen to me! Only listen to me!’ she cried frantically.

  ‘I tell you it is of no use to put yourself in this passion! Good God, can you not understand how impossible it is that we should continue in this manner? I can’t put you in the right way of doing things! But my mother can, and she shall!’

  He put her resolutely out of his way as he spoke and strode to the door.

  ‘Sherry!’ she cried despairingly.

  ‘No! ’ said his lordship, with awful finality, and shut the door upon her.

  Eighteen

  THAT EVENING, HIS COLD HAVING YIELDED IN SOME MEASURE to judicious treatment, Mr Ringwood felt so much better that the prospect of spending a solitary evening by his own fireside filled him with repugnance. His man having reported that there was a nasty wind blowing, with a suggestion of sleet in the air, he thought it might be foolhardy to sally forth to one of his clubs, and sent round a note instead to Cavendish Square, begging the honour of Mr Fakenham’s company to dinner and a rubber or two of piquet. Ferdy, moved by his friend’s plight, good-naturedly cancelled an engagement he had made to meet some other of his cronies at Long’s Hotel, and repaired in due course to Stratton Street, where he was received by a slightly pink-nosed host, clad in the purple brocade dressing-gown he had himself once worn, and with a Belcher handkerchief knotted incongruously round his throat. This ill-assorted attire naturally struck one who was a tulip of fashion to the heart, and Ferdy frankly informed Mr Ringwood that he looked devilish.

  ‘I feel devilish,’ said Mr Ringwood morosely. He added, with a flicker of spirit: ‘At all events I have let my man shave me!’

  ‘Yes,’ admitted Ferdy, recalling with a shudder Mr Ringwood’s appearance earlier in the day. ‘If you had not, Gil, dear old fellow, I couldn’t have dined with you. Couldn’t have fancied a morsel!’ He regarded the Belcher handkerchief with misgiving. ‘And, dash it, I’m not sure I shall be able to fancy anything as it is!’

  However, he was presently able to do full justice to a very handsome dinner, consisting of buttered crab, a dish of mutton fry with parsnips, a pheasant pie, with several side-dishes, including some potted sturgeon, and a cold boiled knuckle of veal, and pig’s face. Having washed down this repast with some excellent Chambertin, Mr Ringwood felt much restored, and was even inclined to think that if he imbibed a sufficient quantity of port during the evening, with perhaps a little brandy to top off the whole, the morrow might find him a new man. The Honourable Ferdy having no fault to find with this programme, the covers were removed, the decanters set on the table, and the two friends settled down to their game of piquet. In this they were presently interrupted by Lord Wrotham, who had looked in on Mr Ringwood to discover what, since Ferdy had so lamentably failed in his morning’s mission, was next to be done to prevent Lady Sherry’s ruining herself in the eyes of the Polite World. Mr Ringwood explained that he himself had resolved to call in Half Moon Street on the following morning; and the three gentlemen were just lamenting the absence of a fourth who could have made up a table of whist when another knock was heard on the street door. The hope that this might herald the arrival of some convivial soul in search of entertainment was shattered a minute later by the entrance into the room of Hero, a bird-cage in one hand and an ormolu clock clutched under her other arm. A cloak was tied round her neck, its hood slipping from her head; she looked alarmingly pale, and there were tear-stains on her cheeks.

  ‘Gil!’ she uttered, in a breaking voice.‘Help me! Oh, will you please help me?’

  The three gentlemen had sprung instinctively to their feet upon her entering the room, and now stood rooted to the floor, gazing at her in the blankest amazement. Mr Ringwood, horribly conscious of his unconventional attire, showed a craven desire to shrink into the background. It was Ferdy who first recovered his manners, and stepped forward, saying earnestly: ‘Anything in our power, Kitten! Gil not quite himself – shocking cold in his head! took toss into a dyke, you know. Allow me to take your clock!’

  She relinquished it, gave up the bird-cage to George, saying agitatedly: ‘Oh, thank you, Ferdy! I did not know you were here! And George! I am so very sorry you are not well, Gil, but what am I to do if you cannot help me, for I have nowhere to go, and no one to advise me, and I am quite desperate!’

  ‘Good God!’ exclaimed George, standing with the bird-cage in his hand and staring at Hero.‘How can this be? What –’

  Mr Ringwood pulled himself together, assured Hero that his cold was a thing of the past, and drew her towards the fire.‘Do, pray, sit down, Kitten, and be calm! Of course I will help you!’

  ‘All help you!’ Ferdy interpolated.‘Greatest pleasure on earth! No need to worry – not the least in the world!’

  ‘She is chilled to the bone!’ said Mr Ringwood, holding her small hands in his.‘For God’s sake, George, put down that birdcage and pour her a drop of brandy!’

  Hero allowed herself to be pressed into a seat by the fire, choked over the brandy, and said: ‘Oh, thank you, no more, if you please! It is only my hands that are cold, and there is such a wind outside!’

  ‘You have not walked here?’ exclaimed Ferdy, as though Half Moon Street were situated in the most remote quarter of town.

  ‘Yes, for what else could I do? Oh, Gil, promise me, promise me – all of you! – that you won’t give me up to Sherry!’

  Three pairs of eyes were riveted to her face. ‘Not – not give you up – Kitten, have you gone mad?’ stammered Mr Ringwood.

  ‘No,’ she replied, wringing her hands.‘Indeed, I am not mad, Gil, though I shall be, or die, perhaps, if he finds me!’

  Ferdy’s jaw dropped. He swallowed once or twice and then said in a soothing tone:‘Thinking of someone else, Kitten! Not Sherry! Very good sort of fellow, my cousin Sherry. Thought you liked him!’

  George, who had been standing gripping the back of a chair, demanded in a voice which boded ill for the absent Viscount: ‘What has Sherry done to you?’

  ‘He has not done anything yet. That is why I had to run away, to prevent him! I could not bear it, I could not!’

  ‘By God!’ George swore, his brilliant eyes beginning to smoulder. ‘Only tell me!’

  Mr Ringwood emerged from his stupefaction at this point. He poured himself out some brandy, tossed it off, and set down the glass with the air of a man who was now competent to deal with any emergency. ‘Hold your tongue, George!’ he commanded tersely. ‘So Sherry’s home, is he, Kitten?’

  She nodded, two large tears rolling down her cheeks.

  ‘I take it it’s this curst race of yours?’

  ‘Yes. How could I have been so wicked and stupid as to – Oh, Ferdy, if I had but listened to you this morning!’

  He shook his head sadly. ‘Pity,’ he agreed. ‘Thought so at the time.’

  ‘But even then it would have been too late, for Sherry says they are betting on me in the clubs, and my reputation is quite ruined! Everyone is talking of me, b-bandying my name about –’

  ‘Let anyone bandy your name about in my presence!’ said George, grinding his teeth.‘Only let them mention your name, that’s all I ask! I shall know what to do if Sherry don’t!’

  ‘How did Sherry get wind of it?’ interrupted Mr Ringwood.

  ‘My cousin Jane wrote him an odious letter, and he came